Fic: These Things That Were
Title: These Things That Were
Author: scout_lover
Characters: Eliot Spencer, Damien Moreau, Chapman (whom I’ve named Myles), Nate Ford (briefly)
Rating: PG-13 (implied, very implied, consensual m/m relationship)
Warnings: None … except maybe for Eliot as a stone-cold killer
Word count: 4,985
A/N: This was written for arabwel for the Leverage Secret Santa Exchange. The prompt was: Eliot/Damien Moreau when the times were good, with an additional wish for outsider pov. Merry Christmas, arabwel, and I hope you like your gift!
Edit: whiskyinmind made the GORGEOUS banner for this. I'm still in awe.
I. Reminds me of Belgrade
Myles sat back in his chair and sipped at his pivo, trying to tamp down his anxiety. All about him, people wandered into and out of the cafés, shops and restaurants that lined the cobbled streets of Skadarlija, Belgrade’s bohemian quarter, and strolling musicians in native Serbian dress played traditional music. But he noticed none of this, was too intent on the conversation between the two men at the table nearby.
Much of his future was riding on that conversation.
He knew arranging this meeting had been an audacious move on his part; he was, after all, still only a foot soldier, not privy to the inner workings of the organization. Yet. But Damien appreciated audacity, appreciated initiative and ambition, and had been known to generously reward both. Myles had seen a way to bring something new and valuable to Damien’s attention while also proving his worth to the man, and so had seized his chance.
Eliot Spencer.
Myles finished his pivot and gestured at the waitress for another. He’d heard Spencer’s name several times over the past six months, each time linked to some impressive jobs, and some impressive skills. It was rumored that the man had been a soldier - Special Forces, no less - but had left the Army after some disastrous mission and was now a freelance operator. He was building an extensive resumé; so far, he’d been linked to jobs in Central America, Africa, Southeast Asia and the Middle East. By all accounts, the American military had trained him well; Spencer was reputed to know a truly staggering number of ways to kill a man. But what truly made him interesting was that he was also said to know when not to kill, to understand not only the practical application but the limits of violence as well.
Killers were a dime a dozen in this world. Intelligent killers were rare and worth their weight in gold.
Still …
Myles glanced again at Spencer and frowned slightly in puzzlement. The man didn’t look anything like his reputation. When they’d met in the lobby of Spencer’s hotel, Myles had been both surprised, and a bit uncertain.
He certainly wasn’t big enough to be imposing. Though solidly built, he was, frankly, short, well under six feet, with curly hair growing out of its military cut, bright blue eyes and a disarmingly boyish face. He wore a button-down shirt that he hadn’t bothered to tuck into somewhat worn blue jeans, small silver hoops in his ears and bracelets at his wrists, and - Myles checked again and rolled his eyes - cowboy boots.
Americans. All wanting to be John Wayne.
Though at least Spencer had the drawl to go with the boots. Myles had been a bit taken aback the first time he’d met him - how could this hick be the man he’d heard about? - but Spencer had quickly redeemed himself with his impressive knowledge of, well, everything. Weapons, security infiltration, power structures - both licit and not, and which individuals or groups truly held power - and a thoroughly impressive, if utterly random, array of personal skills and bits of knowledge, all stored in the surprisingly encyclopedic brain behind that hayseed smile.
If nothing else, Damien would be entertained.
Though, really, Myles was hoping for more than that. Damien Moreau was on his way up, seizing power quietly but effectively, taking advantage of the chaos in the Balkans and Eastern Europe to build his organization … and his fortune. After his native Croatia had begun dragging itself from the rubble of its bitter civil war, and where others had been dazzled by dreams of independence, democracy and freedom, Damien had seen opportunity, a path to wealth and power that would allow him to dictate terms to the world. Step by step and piece by piece he was building, recruiting, making alliances when needed or simply taking out rivals and taking over their operations when possible. Blinded by his charm and beguiled by his insistence on staying out of the spotlight, the rest of the world had absolutely no idea what was coming.
But Myles did. He’d recognized Damien for what he was when the man had first begun making his forays into the diamond trade in South Africa. He’d seen the sharp intelligence and ruthless ambition beneath the smooth demeanor, and had decided then where his future lay. He’d thrown in his lot with Damien and had begun climbing with him. Granted, he might still be only a foot soldier, still a step or two away from cracking into Damien’s top circle, but he was shrewd, ambitious and determined.
And Eliot Spencer would be his way in.
Damien appreciated talent and intelligence, was always looking for more, and Spencer apparently had both in abundance. So Myles had taken his chance and made his move, bringing the man’s name to Damien’s attention, suggesting that he might be someone Damien could use, and then contacting Spencer himself, arranging this meet. Damien had business in Belgrade, and, if Myles were right, that “business” should provide Spencer a chance or two to “audition.”
Really, it was perfect. If Spencer performed up to his usual standards, Myles’ future with Damien would be assured.
Or should be …
Except that, right now, Myles was sitting here, alone, while Damien and Spencer were two tables over, deeply engrossed in conversation and paying not the slightest heed to the man who had brought them together. At the moment, Spencer seemed to be explaining something to Damien, making his points by jabbing a forefinger into the table, even grabbing Damien’s napkin, commandeering a pen and sketching out whatever had him thinking so intently. And Damien-
Was utterly captivated. Myles had cringed when Spencer had snatched first the napkin, then the pen, certain the impudent idiot had just doomed them both. No one took such liberties with Damien Moreau. But while Damien had clearly been startled at first, now he was leaning in close and studying whatever Spencer was writing, nodding thoughtfully and … smiling.
Myles blinked and stiffened, startled. It wasn’t Damien’s familiar cool, distant smile, the one that hinted at a sort of pained tolerance for whatever foolishness he was being forced to endure, nor the sly, predatory grin that warned of imminent destruction. No, this smile was open, easy, warm … real. Then Spencer winked and grinned, made some crack … and Damien laughed.
Before he could process it, Spencer and Damien were both rising to their feet, each clearly looking pleased. Myles had no idea what was happening, but he rose to his feet, too, all his hopes rising with him. Damien’s ever-present guards started drifting closer and Spencer canted his head slightly toward one of them - Karov, if Myles remembered correctly - as something flashed in his eyes. Damien glanced at the man and nodded faintly, then returned his full attention to Spencer. Again flashing that broad smile, he held out a hand, which Spencer accepted with a grin and shook firmly.
“It has been a pleasure, Mr. Spencer,” Damien said warmly. “Glad we could strike a deal.”
Myles only barely restrained his own impulse to throw back his head and laugh aloud in triumph. It had worked. Spencer had passed, and was in. Which meant he was in. His future with Damien Moreau was assured.
Or not.
Later that night, Karov, the guard, was summoned into the office portion of Damien’s lavish hotel suite, where he was killed. Apparently, he had been seen in talks with a rival of Damien’s.
Eliot Spencer pulled the trigger.
Myles was called in to dispose of the body.
As he left the room, he saw Damien offering Eliot a glass of brandy and a Cuban cigar. And then the door was closed between them.
II. He prefers beer
Damien Moreau hadn’t been born into wealth, though only those closest to him knew that. Hell, he hadn’t even been born Damien Moreau.
He began life as Damijan Marulic, and came from a family of tradesmen in Vukovar, scraping for survival under communist rule, and then literally fighting for survival during the war for independence. Like so many of his countrymen, he went to war fired with dreams of a free and independent Croatia, of a nation able to seize and shape its own future. But the savagery of that war changed him, hardened him. He lost his romantic idealism, learned bitter lessons in cruelty and greed, and discovered that ambition, determination and intelligence were potent weapons in the hands of men not afraid to use them.
He left Damijan Marulic in the rubble of Vukovar and emerged as Damien Moreau. He took every hard lesson he’d learned in the war, welded them together into a seamless whole, and quietly began building his operation. Inevitably, though, Croatia proved too small to satisfy or contain his ambitions, and soon, like the Caesars before him, he was defying borders and building an empire.
Along the way, he carefully crafted his image, smoothing away all rough edges and polishing until nothing of Damijan remained and all the world knew was Damien. He worked on softening his accent, made himself fluent in several languages, learned as much about wine and art as he did global finance structures and how to manipulate them.
The face he presented to the world was cultured, sophisticated and eminently respectable. He hid his ruthless nature beneath expensive tailored suits, became a patron of the arts and endowed museums and hospitals … and laundered his money through them, as well as through the legitimate corporations he bought and sold like toys.
He was every inch the Renaissance prince - cultured, cruel, generous to those who served him loyally and well, utterly ruthless with those who did not. He demanded unhesitating obedience, insisted on professionalism, and punished failure quickly and savagely. The killers on his payroll shone as splendidly as he, their deadliness concealed beneath Italian cotton and silk.
And into all this splendor stepped Eliot Spencer, much to the astonishment - and amusement - of those in the inner circle.
Amid the elegance of Moreau’s “court,” he stood out like a plaster statue in the Louvre. The jeans and boots - cowboy boots, no less! - were bad enough, not to mention his penchant for plaid shirts. But then the man would open his mouth, and out would come some mangled version of American English spoken in that ridiculous twang.
Eliot Spencer was a hick.
But somehow he became Damien’s hick.
At first, those on the inside took him for the entertainment. Damien had married (for profit, influence and respectability), but still indulged his fondness for beautiful women … and the occasional beautiful man. An attraction to Spencer made sense. God knew he was pretty enough, and, when he wanted to, could muster a potent charm. He bitterly hated the suits and ties that Damien required (and had damn near had to be drugged and tied down for the fittings), but certainly wore them well. He was confident to the point of cockiness and unquestionably dangerous.
It all made sense.
Except that it didn’t. Because Spencer wasn’t just “the entertainment,” and was much more than a pretty face. Damien tested him thoroughly, gave him the most difficult or most dangerous jobs, and, damn it, the bastard succeeded at all of them. Sometimes even - or especially - where others had failed. More than one man who’d clawed and climbed his way up the ladder was rudely booted off by a smirking Eliot Spencer, who seemed to have far more skills than scruples. Even Chapman, who’d been so convinced that Spencer would be his way into the inner circle, had to stand and watch in impotent fury as he was eclipsed time and again by his “discovery.” By the time anyone understood what was happening, Eliot Spencer was on the inside, a fixture at Damien’s side and the preferred weapon in his arsenal.
And then Damien made him his second.
Spencer took over Damien’s security and made the man’s safety his own personal responsibility. He was the shadow at Damien’s back, the dagger hidden up his sleeve. And his was, frequently, the last face seen by those who dared cross Damien. Few incentives worked better, or faster, to snap a man back into line than the threat of a visit from Moreau’s pet killer.
Damien trusted him implicitly, and Spencer was absolutely loyal. Rumors abounded of a deeper relationship between them, of more shared between them than war stories and games of chess, but no one could say for certain. And no one would ever dare ask.
If the two men themselves knew what was said, and not said, about them, they gave no sign of it. Damien continued building his empire, expanding his reach, and Eliot continued to be the instrument of Damien’s will, enforcing that will with a ruthless efficiency.
Still, it was telling that, with the suits he hated but wore so well, Spencer got away with wearing his beloved cowboy boots, even if, by now, they were custom, hand-made Luccheses.
And that, in bars stocked with the finest liquor and wines, Damien also made certain to keep a supply of Spencer’s favorite beer.
III. There’s only one way to deal with liabilities
They leaned against walls or paced, more anxious than they cared to let on. Or, for the more honest among them, scared. When they spoke, they did so with muted voices, eyes straying constantly, nervously, to the room where, it seemed, all their fates hung in the balance.
They weren’t supposed to be here, had been told that repeatedly, had already faced off with security a few times. But, no matter how much they didn’t want to be here, nothing would make them leave.
Not as long as Damien was here. Not until they knew exactly how he would take his revenge.
Because they all knew that was coming. They were just waiting to find out what, precisely, he’d be avenging, and what kind of hell he’d be unleashing.
Drained and exhausted, Myles slid down the wall he’d been propped against until he was sitting on the floor, but never took his eyes from the room across from him. The blinds were open, and he could see the bed, the man in the bed and all the machines around him … and Damien sitting close by the bed, leaning over the too-still man in it and holding tightly to his hand.
He bowed his head and closed his eyes, but couldn’t block out that scene, and everything it represented.
This was going to be brutal, even for Damien.
They’d all known Marcos was wavering, had known he was looking for other avenues. He was tired of paying the hefty fees Damien charged to keep the French authorities from looking too closely into the cargo his ships brought into and out of Marseille, and had decided to cut out the middleman. He’d begun building his own consortium - in secret, he’d thought - and had been quietly wooing other “disgruntled” clients away from Damien and to him. They’d discovered the identities of some of those other clients, and Damien had persuaded them of the folly of their betrayal.
Naturally, he’d sent Eliot to do the “persuading.”
Marcos had been furious. No one would do business with him, and the port authorities were threatening to search two of his ships loaded with weapons bound for Sudan. He’d demanded a meeting with Damien, a personal meeting, to settle their differences. Damien had agreed - they’d all heard the shouting match with Eliot that had followed that phone call - and had made plans to meet Marcos in Marseille. At the last minute, however, he’d seen reason, to everyone’s relief, and instead had sent Eliot-
Who had walked into an ambush. Eliot and his men had put up a hell of a fight, and Eliot had managed to kill Marcos’ eldest son, but he’d taken two bullets himself, in the chest and gut.
And Marcos had gotten away.
Chapman had only been grazed a few times, which meant he’d had to make the call to Damien. He would rather have taken a bullet to the brain.
Now here they were, in a private hospital that looked more like an armed camp, waiting for whatever shit storm came next. Two of their men were dead, two more wounded, but, just now, Chapman knew everything hinged on that room, where Eliot Spencer was fighting for his life.
Damien hadn’t left Eliot’s side since the man had been brought out of surgery. And he’d threatened to fire and replace every nurse who’d tried to make him leave. When the doctors already on the case wouldn’t - couldn’t - give him the answers he wanted, he had replaced them. But the new ones couldn’t offer better answers, so he’d given in and left them alone.
Chapman scrubbed a hand over his face. They’d been here eighteen hours now, though it felt much, much longer. He had men scouring France, and beyond, for Marcos, had already ordered the executions of those of Marcos’ men who had survived the initial fight.
Damien himself had ordered the deaths of Marcos’ wife and remaining children, and the burning of their home, and, at this moment, French authorities were combing through every facet of Marcos’ entire operation. A phone call to Marcos’ clients in Khartoum, informing them that their guns would not be coming, had led to violent, and thorough, reprisals against his people there.
Damien was scorching the earth and salting the wells.
And Eliot was still alive. For now.
Chapman lifted his head and opened his eyes, glancing again into that room. Machines beeped, lines poured drugs and blood into Eliot … and Damien still clung to his hand, no doubt ordering him to live.
Eliot had never yet disobeyed an order from Damien.
But even Eliot had limits.
Chapman’s phone buzzed, and he sighed and took it out of his pocket, glancing at the number on the screen before answering. Christ, he needed sleep. He sighed and answered the call, putting the phone to his ear and listening. He heard only a few words, but they were the right ones. He muttered his understanding, closed the phone and climbed wearily to his feet.
There’d be no sleep yet. For any of them.
He drew a deep breath, steeled himself, and went into the room. Eliot was deathly pale, too still, too silent. Too small. Damien was just as pale, hollow-eyed and in desperate need of a shave. His tie was long gone, his shirt rumpled and untucked, sleeves rolled messily off his forearms, his dark hair disheveled. The long fingers of one hand were wound through Eliot’s much whiter ones, the others carding through Eliot’s hair.
Chapman would have given a month’s pay to be able to look away.
Instead, he lifted his head, cleared his throat and said simply, “We have him.”
Damien stiffened and looked up sharply, and for a moment Damijan Marulic - veteran and survivor of the hell that had been Vukovar - stared out through his eyes. Chapman barely suppressed a shudder.
Then the man’s face shifted, the cold Renaissance prince returned, and Damien nodded. He leaned forward, pressed a kiss to Eliot’s temple, and rose to his feet.
“Take me to him,” he ordered, his voice rough and thick with the accent he’d worked so long and so hard to shed.
That afternoon, for the first time that anyone could remember since he’d begun his rise, Damien Moreau was the one who pulled the trigger.
IV. That’s no way to treat an old friend
Chapman paced about the terrace overlooking the sea below. The large, sprawling villa was oddly quiet, and all but deserted. Damien had sent away his wife and all but a handful of his men. He’d wanted to send them all away, but Eliot had protested, refusing to let the man leave himself that vulnerable.
Even now Eliot was protecting him.
God, it was disgusting.
By all rights, the man should be dead now, dispatched with a bullet to the back of the head and his body buried in a shallow grave. Hell, Myles had even volunteered!
But Damien had refused, unable to bring himself to give that order.
And now the two of them - broken prince and his betrayer - were sequestered together in Damien’s study, discussing Eliot’s fate.
As if there were anything to discuss. If it had been anyone else, the punishment would have been swift, vicious and final. Eliot would have paid the offender a visit, cursed him for the hurt he’d dealt to Damien, and left him lying in a pool of his own blood. Maybe even his family’s blood.
This time, though, it had been Eliot who’d transgressed, and, as ever where he was concerned, none of the usual rules applied.
He had been sent to kill General Lawrence Flores and his family, to remove the obstacle the man had become in Damien’s path. Damien wanted San Lorenzo, needed its policy of non-extradition, and had begun smoothing his way by supporting Edwin Ribera as his puppet. He’d bought judges and legislators, owned more government ministers than he could name … but wouldn’t have complete control until he owned the army.
And Lawrence Flores was the army. His officers were absolutely loyal to him, and his men revered him as a hero; almost a god. He’d shed blood in San Lorenzo’s various wars for independence, had stared down countless would-be dictators, had kept the army free of any taint of corruption and made it the heart and soul of San Lorenzo.
Damien needed the army to complete his takeover. To get the army, he needed Flores dead and an example made of his family.
As always, as always, he’d sent Eliot … and Eliot had failed.
No, not failed. Refused.
The bastard had come back, dropped his guns to the floor at Damien’s feet, and said he couldn’t do it. Flores was alive, his family spirited off into hiding; for now, even Flores didn’t know where so it couldn’t be tortured out of him.
And then Eliot, completely unarmed, had gone to his knees and bowed his head, waiting for the shot that would end his life.
But Damien hadn’t given the order.
That had been two days ago, and the order still hadn’t come. Chapman knew it never would. Damien had cleared out the house, save for the handful of men Eliot had begged him to keep … and Chapman hadn’t missed the searing irony that every man who remained had been handpicked by Eliot for his loyalty.
Christ, it was sickening. Even in disgrace, he managed to make himself seem noble.
Still, he’d had some explaining to do … and hadn’t that been fun? The shouting matches between them had raged at all hours and with appalling savagery as they had laid bare three years of lives so tightly intertwined, re-fighting old arguments, ripping open old wounds, laying new blame for old failures, hurling accusations and recriminations like stones. They’d even come to blows a few times - though strangely neither had ever reached for a weapon - and broken enough porcelain and glass that the place looked as if a cyclone had blown through.
And as he’d watched in horrified fascination, Chapman couldn’t help thinking that what he was seeing had nothing at all to do with a master’s rage over a subordinate’s betrayal, or even one friend’s hurt over another’s desertion.
It had been nothing less than the bitter and brutal end of a love affair.
For the past few hours, though, a strange kind of peace had reined, one born, no doubt, of utter exhaustion. Damien had retreated into his study, called Eliot to him, and closed the door. Myles kept listening for the sound of a gunshot, though he knew any that came wouldn’t give him the satisfaction he craved.
Damien would never kill Eliot himself; he didn’t have it in him. Eliot wouldn’t kill Damien; his habit of loyalty was too deeply ingrained. Ever the good soldier, he might have it in him to spare Damien the anguish of giving the order and kill himself-
But Myles didn’t think any of them would survive the aftermath of that.
Jesus, when had they fallen into a Greek tragedy?
He turned and started to make his way back to the small bar to pour himself another drink - liquor seemed the best option just now - when the glass door slid open, with Damien standing there. The man looked exhausted, but calm and composed.
“Come with me,” he ordered simply, then turned and walked away.
Myles forgot his drink and followed immediately.
Damien led him through the darkened house, and Myles winced at the wreckage. But at least Juliana would have an actual excuse for one of her infamous shopping expeditions, courtesy of her husband and his … what?
What in the hell was Eliot now?
The answer - and the man himself - awaited him in Damien’s study. Eliot sat in one of the plush leather chairs before Damien’s impressive desk - no longer the shadow at Damien’s back - and looked every bit as empty as Damien. He was also back in jeans, snap-front shirt and old scuffed boots.
Interesting.
Damien closed the heavy door, then moved through the silent room to take his seat behind his desk. Myles hovered uncertainly before the desk, but was never invited to take the second chair.
And Damien’s eyes never left Eliot, who kept his head bowed.
Myles could almost feel something ripping in the fabric of the universe.
Damien sighed and sat back in his chair. “Eliot will be leaving us,” he said quietly, his voice remarkably steady.
Myles looked up sharply at that, utterly confused. “Leaving?” he asked stupidly. As in walking out of here under his own power?
Eliot never moved, looked for all the world as if he’d left already, but had forgotten to take his body.
“He failed me, and he knows it,” Damien went on in that same controlled voice. “We have … made our peace, and it will never be spoken of again.” He shifted his gaze abruptly to Myles. “By anyone.”
Myles swallowed and nodded tightly, recognizing an absolute command when he heard it. But, Christ, they’d have hell enforcing that one.
Still, there was one thing, at the very least, that did need to be discussed.
“And what of Eliot?” he asked, knowing what he desperately wanted to hear, but certain he never would.
Damien lifted his head, his sharp gaze snaring and holding Myles’ own. “He will be leaving us,” he repeated in a hard, imperious voice. “He will walk out of this house, leave his life among us, and we will let him go.”
Rage rose up hard and hot within him, almost choking him, but he knew better than to give it voice. He clenched his jaws, knotted his hands into fists … and stayed silent.
But Damien was no fool, and clearly knew what Myles wouldn’t say. He inclined his head further, speared Myles with an unrelenting stare, and said very clearly, “No one is to touch him. No one is to think he will be doing me a favor, no one is to think he will be defending my authority, no one is to think he will be avenging my wounded honor. No one is to touch him,” he repeated, naked steel in his voice and stare. “Not now, not ever. Do I make myself clear?”
Myles was stunned. He’d expected something like this, yes, but hearing it put into words-
“Do I make myself clear?” Damien demanded harshly.
Myles swallowed and nodded. “Y- yes, sir,” he rasped at last.
Damien stared at him for long moments, then nodded and relaxed. “Go,” he sighed, waving a hand in weary dismissal. “Make certain everyone knows my orders. And make certain they know I will personally kill the man who disobeys them.”
Myles swallowed again and resisted the urge to sneer. Still the master’s pet. But he said nothing, merely nodded, turned on his heel and walked out of the office.
As he turned to close the door, he saw Eliot slump forward strickenly in his chair, and Damien rise from his chair and come around his desk to comfort him.
V. Who are you?
Nate stood back and watched the paramedics tending the injured Italian. He knew he should be concerned about her - and he was, really - but, just now, the bulk of his worry was for the man who stood apart, alone, an EMT windbreaker over his blood-stained wifebeater, his head bowed, his long hair falling about him in disarray.
He looked as if his whole world were crashing into ruin about him.
And Damien Moreau was responsible for that look.
Nate didn’t know for certain what had happened in that warehouse, but he had a fairly good idea. That Eliot had burst into this hangar, out of his mind with rage and desperate to kill Moreau, had told him all he needed to know.
And he hated Moreau for forcing Eliot back into the place he’d worked so hard, fought so hard, to escape.
The bastard might have shot the Italian, but he’d wounded Eliot in a deeply mortal place. And he’d pay.
Who are you?
Moreau had snapped out the question in anger and frustration, and Nate had given him a half-assed answer designed to further inflame him. It had been the right answer for that moment, but now another sprang to mind.
Who are you?
Nate watched Eliot, so helplessly mired in all the blood he’d shed because of the man they’d had to let get away, and felt his lips twisting into a cold smile.
He was Nate Ford, and he was the man who would make Damien Moreau pay for tearing Eliot Spencer into pieces.
The End
Author: scout_lover
Characters: Eliot Spencer, Damien Moreau, Chapman (whom I’ve named Myles), Nate Ford (briefly)
Rating: PG-13 (implied, very implied, consensual m/m relationship)
Warnings: None … except maybe for Eliot as a stone-cold killer
Word count: 4,985
A/N: This was written for arabwel for the Leverage Secret Santa Exchange. The prompt was: Eliot/Damien Moreau when the times were good, with an additional wish for outsider pov. Merry Christmas, arabwel, and I hope you like your gift!
Edit: whiskyinmind made the GORGEOUS banner for this. I'm still in awe.
I. Reminds me of Belgrade
Myles sat back in his chair and sipped at his pivo, trying to tamp down his anxiety. All about him, people wandered into and out of the cafés, shops and restaurants that lined the cobbled streets of Skadarlija, Belgrade’s bohemian quarter, and strolling musicians in native Serbian dress played traditional music. But he noticed none of this, was too intent on the conversation between the two men at the table nearby.
Much of his future was riding on that conversation.
He knew arranging this meeting had been an audacious move on his part; he was, after all, still only a foot soldier, not privy to the inner workings of the organization. Yet. But Damien appreciated audacity, appreciated initiative and ambition, and had been known to generously reward both. Myles had seen a way to bring something new and valuable to Damien’s attention while also proving his worth to the man, and so had seized his chance.
Eliot Spencer.
Myles finished his pivot and gestured at the waitress for another. He’d heard Spencer’s name several times over the past six months, each time linked to some impressive jobs, and some impressive skills. It was rumored that the man had been a soldier - Special Forces, no less - but had left the Army after some disastrous mission and was now a freelance operator. He was building an extensive resumé; so far, he’d been linked to jobs in Central America, Africa, Southeast Asia and the Middle East. By all accounts, the American military had trained him well; Spencer was reputed to know a truly staggering number of ways to kill a man. But what truly made him interesting was that he was also said to know when not to kill, to understand not only the practical application but the limits of violence as well.
Killers were a dime a dozen in this world. Intelligent killers were rare and worth their weight in gold.
Still …
Myles glanced again at Spencer and frowned slightly in puzzlement. The man didn’t look anything like his reputation. When they’d met in the lobby of Spencer’s hotel, Myles had been both surprised, and a bit uncertain.
He certainly wasn’t big enough to be imposing. Though solidly built, he was, frankly, short, well under six feet, with curly hair growing out of its military cut, bright blue eyes and a disarmingly boyish face. He wore a button-down shirt that he hadn’t bothered to tuck into somewhat worn blue jeans, small silver hoops in his ears and bracelets at his wrists, and - Myles checked again and rolled his eyes - cowboy boots.
Americans. All wanting to be John Wayne.
Though at least Spencer had the drawl to go with the boots. Myles had been a bit taken aback the first time he’d met him - how could this hick be the man he’d heard about? - but Spencer had quickly redeemed himself with his impressive knowledge of, well, everything. Weapons, security infiltration, power structures - both licit and not, and which individuals or groups truly held power - and a thoroughly impressive, if utterly random, array of personal skills and bits of knowledge, all stored in the surprisingly encyclopedic brain behind that hayseed smile.
If nothing else, Damien would be entertained.
Though, really, Myles was hoping for more than that. Damien Moreau was on his way up, seizing power quietly but effectively, taking advantage of the chaos in the Balkans and Eastern Europe to build his organization … and his fortune. After his native Croatia had begun dragging itself from the rubble of its bitter civil war, and where others had been dazzled by dreams of independence, democracy and freedom, Damien had seen opportunity, a path to wealth and power that would allow him to dictate terms to the world. Step by step and piece by piece he was building, recruiting, making alliances when needed or simply taking out rivals and taking over their operations when possible. Blinded by his charm and beguiled by his insistence on staying out of the spotlight, the rest of the world had absolutely no idea what was coming.
But Myles did. He’d recognized Damien for what he was when the man had first begun making his forays into the diamond trade in South Africa. He’d seen the sharp intelligence and ruthless ambition beneath the smooth demeanor, and had decided then where his future lay. He’d thrown in his lot with Damien and had begun climbing with him. Granted, he might still be only a foot soldier, still a step or two away from cracking into Damien’s top circle, but he was shrewd, ambitious and determined.
And Eliot Spencer would be his way in.
Damien appreciated talent and intelligence, was always looking for more, and Spencer apparently had both in abundance. So Myles had taken his chance and made his move, bringing the man’s name to Damien’s attention, suggesting that he might be someone Damien could use, and then contacting Spencer himself, arranging this meet. Damien had business in Belgrade, and, if Myles were right, that “business” should provide Spencer a chance or two to “audition.”
Really, it was perfect. If Spencer performed up to his usual standards, Myles’ future with Damien would be assured.
Or should be …
Except that, right now, Myles was sitting here, alone, while Damien and Spencer were two tables over, deeply engrossed in conversation and paying not the slightest heed to the man who had brought them together. At the moment, Spencer seemed to be explaining something to Damien, making his points by jabbing a forefinger into the table, even grabbing Damien’s napkin, commandeering a pen and sketching out whatever had him thinking so intently. And Damien-
Was utterly captivated. Myles had cringed when Spencer had snatched first the napkin, then the pen, certain the impudent idiot had just doomed them both. No one took such liberties with Damien Moreau. But while Damien had clearly been startled at first, now he was leaning in close and studying whatever Spencer was writing, nodding thoughtfully and … smiling.
Myles blinked and stiffened, startled. It wasn’t Damien’s familiar cool, distant smile, the one that hinted at a sort of pained tolerance for whatever foolishness he was being forced to endure, nor the sly, predatory grin that warned of imminent destruction. No, this smile was open, easy, warm … real. Then Spencer winked and grinned, made some crack … and Damien laughed.
Before he could process it, Spencer and Damien were both rising to their feet, each clearly looking pleased. Myles had no idea what was happening, but he rose to his feet, too, all his hopes rising with him. Damien’s ever-present guards started drifting closer and Spencer canted his head slightly toward one of them - Karov, if Myles remembered correctly - as something flashed in his eyes. Damien glanced at the man and nodded faintly, then returned his full attention to Spencer. Again flashing that broad smile, he held out a hand, which Spencer accepted with a grin and shook firmly.
“It has been a pleasure, Mr. Spencer,” Damien said warmly. “Glad we could strike a deal.”
Myles only barely restrained his own impulse to throw back his head and laugh aloud in triumph. It had worked. Spencer had passed, and was in. Which meant he was in. His future with Damien Moreau was assured.
Or not.
Later that night, Karov, the guard, was summoned into the office portion of Damien’s lavish hotel suite, where he was killed. Apparently, he had been seen in talks with a rival of Damien’s.
Eliot Spencer pulled the trigger.
Myles was called in to dispose of the body.
As he left the room, he saw Damien offering Eliot a glass of brandy and a Cuban cigar. And then the door was closed between them.
II. He prefers beer
Damien Moreau hadn’t been born into wealth, though only those closest to him knew that. Hell, he hadn’t even been born Damien Moreau.
He began life as Damijan Marulic, and came from a family of tradesmen in Vukovar, scraping for survival under communist rule, and then literally fighting for survival during the war for independence. Like so many of his countrymen, he went to war fired with dreams of a free and independent Croatia, of a nation able to seize and shape its own future. But the savagery of that war changed him, hardened him. He lost his romantic idealism, learned bitter lessons in cruelty and greed, and discovered that ambition, determination and intelligence were potent weapons in the hands of men not afraid to use them.
He left Damijan Marulic in the rubble of Vukovar and emerged as Damien Moreau. He took every hard lesson he’d learned in the war, welded them together into a seamless whole, and quietly began building his operation. Inevitably, though, Croatia proved too small to satisfy or contain his ambitions, and soon, like the Caesars before him, he was defying borders and building an empire.
Along the way, he carefully crafted his image, smoothing away all rough edges and polishing until nothing of Damijan remained and all the world knew was Damien. He worked on softening his accent, made himself fluent in several languages, learned as much about wine and art as he did global finance structures and how to manipulate them.
The face he presented to the world was cultured, sophisticated and eminently respectable. He hid his ruthless nature beneath expensive tailored suits, became a patron of the arts and endowed museums and hospitals … and laundered his money through them, as well as through the legitimate corporations he bought and sold like toys.
He was every inch the Renaissance prince - cultured, cruel, generous to those who served him loyally and well, utterly ruthless with those who did not. He demanded unhesitating obedience, insisted on professionalism, and punished failure quickly and savagely. The killers on his payroll shone as splendidly as he, their deadliness concealed beneath Italian cotton and silk.
And into all this splendor stepped Eliot Spencer, much to the astonishment - and amusement - of those in the inner circle.
Amid the elegance of Moreau’s “court,” he stood out like a plaster statue in the Louvre. The jeans and boots - cowboy boots, no less! - were bad enough, not to mention his penchant for plaid shirts. But then the man would open his mouth, and out would come some mangled version of American English spoken in that ridiculous twang.
Eliot Spencer was a hick.
But somehow he became Damien’s hick.
At first, those on the inside took him for the entertainment. Damien had married (for profit, influence and respectability), but still indulged his fondness for beautiful women … and the occasional beautiful man. An attraction to Spencer made sense. God knew he was pretty enough, and, when he wanted to, could muster a potent charm. He bitterly hated the suits and ties that Damien required (and had damn near had to be drugged and tied down for the fittings), but certainly wore them well. He was confident to the point of cockiness and unquestionably dangerous.
It all made sense.
Except that it didn’t. Because Spencer wasn’t just “the entertainment,” and was much more than a pretty face. Damien tested him thoroughly, gave him the most difficult or most dangerous jobs, and, damn it, the bastard succeeded at all of them. Sometimes even - or especially - where others had failed. More than one man who’d clawed and climbed his way up the ladder was rudely booted off by a smirking Eliot Spencer, who seemed to have far more skills than scruples. Even Chapman, who’d been so convinced that Spencer would be his way into the inner circle, had to stand and watch in impotent fury as he was eclipsed time and again by his “discovery.” By the time anyone understood what was happening, Eliot Spencer was on the inside, a fixture at Damien’s side and the preferred weapon in his arsenal.
And then Damien made him his second.
Spencer took over Damien’s security and made the man’s safety his own personal responsibility. He was the shadow at Damien’s back, the dagger hidden up his sleeve. And his was, frequently, the last face seen by those who dared cross Damien. Few incentives worked better, or faster, to snap a man back into line than the threat of a visit from Moreau’s pet killer.
Damien trusted him implicitly, and Spencer was absolutely loyal. Rumors abounded of a deeper relationship between them, of more shared between them than war stories and games of chess, but no one could say for certain. And no one would ever dare ask.
If the two men themselves knew what was said, and not said, about them, they gave no sign of it. Damien continued building his empire, expanding his reach, and Eliot continued to be the instrument of Damien’s will, enforcing that will with a ruthless efficiency.
Still, it was telling that, with the suits he hated but wore so well, Spencer got away with wearing his beloved cowboy boots, even if, by now, they were custom, hand-made Luccheses.
And that, in bars stocked with the finest liquor and wines, Damien also made certain to keep a supply of Spencer’s favorite beer.
III. There’s only one way to deal with liabilities
They leaned against walls or paced, more anxious than they cared to let on. Or, for the more honest among them, scared. When they spoke, they did so with muted voices, eyes straying constantly, nervously, to the room where, it seemed, all their fates hung in the balance.
They weren’t supposed to be here, had been told that repeatedly, had already faced off with security a few times. But, no matter how much they didn’t want to be here, nothing would make them leave.
Not as long as Damien was here. Not until they knew exactly how he would take his revenge.
Because they all knew that was coming. They were just waiting to find out what, precisely, he’d be avenging, and what kind of hell he’d be unleashing.
Drained and exhausted, Myles slid down the wall he’d been propped against until he was sitting on the floor, but never took his eyes from the room across from him. The blinds were open, and he could see the bed, the man in the bed and all the machines around him … and Damien sitting close by the bed, leaning over the too-still man in it and holding tightly to his hand.
He bowed his head and closed his eyes, but couldn’t block out that scene, and everything it represented.
This was going to be brutal, even for Damien.
They’d all known Marcos was wavering, had known he was looking for other avenues. He was tired of paying the hefty fees Damien charged to keep the French authorities from looking too closely into the cargo his ships brought into and out of Marseille, and had decided to cut out the middleman. He’d begun building his own consortium - in secret, he’d thought - and had been quietly wooing other “disgruntled” clients away from Damien and to him. They’d discovered the identities of some of those other clients, and Damien had persuaded them of the folly of their betrayal.
Naturally, he’d sent Eliot to do the “persuading.”
Marcos had been furious. No one would do business with him, and the port authorities were threatening to search two of his ships loaded with weapons bound for Sudan. He’d demanded a meeting with Damien, a personal meeting, to settle their differences. Damien had agreed - they’d all heard the shouting match with Eliot that had followed that phone call - and had made plans to meet Marcos in Marseille. At the last minute, however, he’d seen reason, to everyone’s relief, and instead had sent Eliot-
Who had walked into an ambush. Eliot and his men had put up a hell of a fight, and Eliot had managed to kill Marcos’ eldest son, but he’d taken two bullets himself, in the chest and gut.
And Marcos had gotten away.
Chapman had only been grazed a few times, which meant he’d had to make the call to Damien. He would rather have taken a bullet to the brain.
Now here they were, in a private hospital that looked more like an armed camp, waiting for whatever shit storm came next. Two of their men were dead, two more wounded, but, just now, Chapman knew everything hinged on that room, where Eliot Spencer was fighting for his life.
Damien hadn’t left Eliot’s side since the man had been brought out of surgery. And he’d threatened to fire and replace every nurse who’d tried to make him leave. When the doctors already on the case wouldn’t - couldn’t - give him the answers he wanted, he had replaced them. But the new ones couldn’t offer better answers, so he’d given in and left them alone.
Chapman scrubbed a hand over his face. They’d been here eighteen hours now, though it felt much, much longer. He had men scouring France, and beyond, for Marcos, had already ordered the executions of those of Marcos’ men who had survived the initial fight.
Damien himself had ordered the deaths of Marcos’ wife and remaining children, and the burning of their home, and, at this moment, French authorities were combing through every facet of Marcos’ entire operation. A phone call to Marcos’ clients in Khartoum, informing them that their guns would not be coming, had led to violent, and thorough, reprisals against his people there.
Damien was scorching the earth and salting the wells.
And Eliot was still alive. For now.
Chapman lifted his head and opened his eyes, glancing again into that room. Machines beeped, lines poured drugs and blood into Eliot … and Damien still clung to his hand, no doubt ordering him to live.
Eliot had never yet disobeyed an order from Damien.
But even Eliot had limits.
Chapman’s phone buzzed, and he sighed and took it out of his pocket, glancing at the number on the screen before answering. Christ, he needed sleep. He sighed and answered the call, putting the phone to his ear and listening. He heard only a few words, but they were the right ones. He muttered his understanding, closed the phone and climbed wearily to his feet.
There’d be no sleep yet. For any of them.
He drew a deep breath, steeled himself, and went into the room. Eliot was deathly pale, too still, too silent. Too small. Damien was just as pale, hollow-eyed and in desperate need of a shave. His tie was long gone, his shirt rumpled and untucked, sleeves rolled messily off his forearms, his dark hair disheveled. The long fingers of one hand were wound through Eliot’s much whiter ones, the others carding through Eliot’s hair.
Chapman would have given a month’s pay to be able to look away.
Instead, he lifted his head, cleared his throat and said simply, “We have him.”
Damien stiffened and looked up sharply, and for a moment Damijan Marulic - veteran and survivor of the hell that had been Vukovar - stared out through his eyes. Chapman barely suppressed a shudder.
Then the man’s face shifted, the cold Renaissance prince returned, and Damien nodded. He leaned forward, pressed a kiss to Eliot’s temple, and rose to his feet.
“Take me to him,” he ordered, his voice rough and thick with the accent he’d worked so long and so hard to shed.
That afternoon, for the first time that anyone could remember since he’d begun his rise, Damien Moreau was the one who pulled the trigger.
IV. That’s no way to treat an old friend
Chapman paced about the terrace overlooking the sea below. The large, sprawling villa was oddly quiet, and all but deserted. Damien had sent away his wife and all but a handful of his men. He’d wanted to send them all away, but Eliot had protested, refusing to let the man leave himself that vulnerable.
Even now Eliot was protecting him.
God, it was disgusting.
By all rights, the man should be dead now, dispatched with a bullet to the back of the head and his body buried in a shallow grave. Hell, Myles had even volunteered!
But Damien had refused, unable to bring himself to give that order.
And now the two of them - broken prince and his betrayer - were sequestered together in Damien’s study, discussing Eliot’s fate.
As if there were anything to discuss. If it had been anyone else, the punishment would have been swift, vicious and final. Eliot would have paid the offender a visit, cursed him for the hurt he’d dealt to Damien, and left him lying in a pool of his own blood. Maybe even his family’s blood.
This time, though, it had been Eliot who’d transgressed, and, as ever where he was concerned, none of the usual rules applied.
He had been sent to kill General Lawrence Flores and his family, to remove the obstacle the man had become in Damien’s path. Damien wanted San Lorenzo, needed its policy of non-extradition, and had begun smoothing his way by supporting Edwin Ribera as his puppet. He’d bought judges and legislators, owned more government ministers than he could name … but wouldn’t have complete control until he owned the army.
And Lawrence Flores was the army. His officers were absolutely loyal to him, and his men revered him as a hero; almost a god. He’d shed blood in San Lorenzo’s various wars for independence, had stared down countless would-be dictators, had kept the army free of any taint of corruption and made it the heart and soul of San Lorenzo.
Damien needed the army to complete his takeover. To get the army, he needed Flores dead and an example made of his family.
As always, as always, he’d sent Eliot … and Eliot had failed.
No, not failed. Refused.
The bastard had come back, dropped his guns to the floor at Damien’s feet, and said he couldn’t do it. Flores was alive, his family spirited off into hiding; for now, even Flores didn’t know where so it couldn’t be tortured out of him.
And then Eliot, completely unarmed, had gone to his knees and bowed his head, waiting for the shot that would end his life.
But Damien hadn’t given the order.
That had been two days ago, and the order still hadn’t come. Chapman knew it never would. Damien had cleared out the house, save for the handful of men Eliot had begged him to keep … and Chapman hadn’t missed the searing irony that every man who remained had been handpicked by Eliot for his loyalty.
Christ, it was sickening. Even in disgrace, he managed to make himself seem noble.
Still, he’d had some explaining to do … and hadn’t that been fun? The shouting matches between them had raged at all hours and with appalling savagery as they had laid bare three years of lives so tightly intertwined, re-fighting old arguments, ripping open old wounds, laying new blame for old failures, hurling accusations and recriminations like stones. They’d even come to blows a few times - though strangely neither had ever reached for a weapon - and broken enough porcelain and glass that the place looked as if a cyclone had blown through.
And as he’d watched in horrified fascination, Chapman couldn’t help thinking that what he was seeing had nothing at all to do with a master’s rage over a subordinate’s betrayal, or even one friend’s hurt over another’s desertion.
It had been nothing less than the bitter and brutal end of a love affair.
For the past few hours, though, a strange kind of peace had reined, one born, no doubt, of utter exhaustion. Damien had retreated into his study, called Eliot to him, and closed the door. Myles kept listening for the sound of a gunshot, though he knew any that came wouldn’t give him the satisfaction he craved.
Damien would never kill Eliot himself; he didn’t have it in him. Eliot wouldn’t kill Damien; his habit of loyalty was too deeply ingrained. Ever the good soldier, he might have it in him to spare Damien the anguish of giving the order and kill himself-
But Myles didn’t think any of them would survive the aftermath of that.
Jesus, when had they fallen into a Greek tragedy?
He turned and started to make his way back to the small bar to pour himself another drink - liquor seemed the best option just now - when the glass door slid open, with Damien standing there. The man looked exhausted, but calm and composed.
“Come with me,” he ordered simply, then turned and walked away.
Myles forgot his drink and followed immediately.
Damien led him through the darkened house, and Myles winced at the wreckage. But at least Juliana would have an actual excuse for one of her infamous shopping expeditions, courtesy of her husband and his … what?
What in the hell was Eliot now?
The answer - and the man himself - awaited him in Damien’s study. Eliot sat in one of the plush leather chairs before Damien’s impressive desk - no longer the shadow at Damien’s back - and looked every bit as empty as Damien. He was also back in jeans, snap-front shirt and old scuffed boots.
Interesting.
Damien closed the heavy door, then moved through the silent room to take his seat behind his desk. Myles hovered uncertainly before the desk, but was never invited to take the second chair.
And Damien’s eyes never left Eliot, who kept his head bowed.
Myles could almost feel something ripping in the fabric of the universe.
Damien sighed and sat back in his chair. “Eliot will be leaving us,” he said quietly, his voice remarkably steady.
Myles looked up sharply at that, utterly confused. “Leaving?” he asked stupidly. As in walking out of here under his own power?
Eliot never moved, looked for all the world as if he’d left already, but had forgotten to take his body.
“He failed me, and he knows it,” Damien went on in that same controlled voice. “We have … made our peace, and it will never be spoken of again.” He shifted his gaze abruptly to Myles. “By anyone.”
Myles swallowed and nodded tightly, recognizing an absolute command when he heard it. But, Christ, they’d have hell enforcing that one.
Still, there was one thing, at the very least, that did need to be discussed.
“And what of Eliot?” he asked, knowing what he desperately wanted to hear, but certain he never would.
Damien lifted his head, his sharp gaze snaring and holding Myles’ own. “He will be leaving us,” he repeated in a hard, imperious voice. “He will walk out of this house, leave his life among us, and we will let him go.”
Rage rose up hard and hot within him, almost choking him, but he knew better than to give it voice. He clenched his jaws, knotted his hands into fists … and stayed silent.
But Damien was no fool, and clearly knew what Myles wouldn’t say. He inclined his head further, speared Myles with an unrelenting stare, and said very clearly, “No one is to touch him. No one is to think he will be doing me a favor, no one is to think he will be defending my authority, no one is to think he will be avenging my wounded honor. No one is to touch him,” he repeated, naked steel in his voice and stare. “Not now, not ever. Do I make myself clear?”
Myles was stunned. He’d expected something like this, yes, but hearing it put into words-
“Do I make myself clear?” Damien demanded harshly.
Myles swallowed and nodded. “Y- yes, sir,” he rasped at last.
Damien stared at him for long moments, then nodded and relaxed. “Go,” he sighed, waving a hand in weary dismissal. “Make certain everyone knows my orders. And make certain they know I will personally kill the man who disobeys them.”
Myles swallowed again and resisted the urge to sneer. Still the master’s pet. But he said nothing, merely nodded, turned on his heel and walked out of the office.
As he turned to close the door, he saw Eliot slump forward strickenly in his chair, and Damien rise from his chair and come around his desk to comfort him.
V. Who are you?
Nate stood back and watched the paramedics tending the injured Italian. He knew he should be concerned about her - and he was, really - but, just now, the bulk of his worry was for the man who stood apart, alone, an EMT windbreaker over his blood-stained wifebeater, his head bowed, his long hair falling about him in disarray.
He looked as if his whole world were crashing into ruin about him.
And Damien Moreau was responsible for that look.
Nate didn’t know for certain what had happened in that warehouse, but he had a fairly good idea. That Eliot had burst into this hangar, out of his mind with rage and desperate to kill Moreau, had told him all he needed to know.
And he hated Moreau for forcing Eliot back into the place he’d worked so hard, fought so hard, to escape.
The bastard might have shot the Italian, but he’d wounded Eliot in a deeply mortal place. And he’d pay.
Who are you?
Moreau had snapped out the question in anger and frustration, and Nate had given him a half-assed answer designed to further inflame him. It had been the right answer for that moment, but now another sprang to mind.
Who are you?
Nate watched Eliot, so helplessly mired in all the blood he’d shed because of the man they’d had to let get away, and felt his lips twisting into a cold smile.
He was Nate Ford, and he was the man who would make Damien Moreau pay for tearing Eliot Spencer into pieces.
The End